


Snow Falling Upon All

by Shortsandramblings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:56:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shortsandramblings/pseuds/Shortsandramblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Arya Stark are in hiding, pretending to be boys, trying to get on with their lives with the aid of Yoren, after suffering several family tragedies and being hunted because of their family name.</p><p>After falling into trouble once more, Sansa – or more specifically – Alayn – ‘s life is saved by the Count of Dragonstone.</p><p>Feeling responsible for the youth whose life he has saved, Stannis Baratheon decides to foster the boy... (girl) and take him in, as well as his younger brother and uncle.</p><p> <br/><em>* The title inspired by James Joyce’s short story: 'The Dead'.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry: still writing all my other stories but I just can’t myself from getting more ideas ...

 

Sansa tugged her thin coat over her small frame to protect herself against the bitter wind. It barely made a difference, making her wonder how much longer she’d last before she collapse like some of the children working in the factory. It was only because she was older than most that she was able to endure these harsh conditions. She was considered an adult, after all, at eight and ten. Yet in the male outfit with her thick dark tresses securely bound and hidden under a cap, she passed for a boy of four and ten.

Of course, that was the effect Yoren had wanted. He wanted Arya and herself to be inconspicuous; to blend into the background. For her sister and her to live the rest of their lives without further problems. - Not that they hadn’t already lived through hardships and that they were always starving and cold. Not to mention the fact that for the past two weeks, Yoren was bedridden from illness.

And that didn’t even account for Arya’s stubbornness and knack for getting herself into various kinds of trouble.

 

Just then, breaking her from her thoughts - as if the Gods had known what Sansa had been thinking about – was the sound of a _crash_ ; more specifically, the sound of porcelain breaking.

Dread running through her slim body, Sansa was unable to stop herself from turning around to see her fears confirmed further. Her pale face lost the little colour it had left when the scene confirmed the worse: what looked like a ten year old boy sprawled on a patch of icy concrete which he had obviously slipped and tumbled over.

In front of the youth: one of the factory's vases shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

 

She closed her eyes and cursed fluently the many words she had heard from Yoren in the five years in his company. She wished with all her heart that it was only a nightmare.

Not losing any more time, she ran to the child, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up.

Her blue eyes met grey ones: _Arya’s_ grey ones.

 

Unfortunately, before she could even open her mouth to her sister, the nightmare proved a reality when Mr. Trant appeared. His eyes flared when he saw the ground covered with pieces of porcelain everywhere, and Arya and herself right next to them. He marched toward the both of them, his eyes bulging with fury.

He growled, his hand reaching for Arya. - However before Meryn Trant could grab her, Sansa moved in the way and her meek voice a mix between dread and determination stated:

“I broke the vase... it was an accident... I’m so sorry...I-”

\- Before she could continue, the full of his heated gaze transferred to her and growled:

“You broke it!... D’you know how much that vase cost?!”

Before he yanked her up, punched her face - which she expected - and hurled her against the sidewall - which she had also expected.

She smacked into the brick barrier and toppled to the ground. Her cape tumbled from her head, releasing a mass of haphazardly cut, short dark hair.

 

 _Seven Hells_!

 

The pain hit all along her right side...

Sansa looked up past Mr. Trant, tears in her eyes, and there was some relief to note one of the workers was holding her hot blooded sister back from making things worse. – _Arya is safe at least._..

Looking back at the large man coming towards her, fear came full force once more enveloping her, suffocating her, as she figured what was coming next... _the whip_.

 

_\- Gods! ... I’m was going to die... Who was going to look after Arya?... And Yoren..._

 

Confirming her morbid thoughts, Mr. Trant bellowed: “Osmund!”

The pale foreman appeared from the doorway of one of the factory buildings, eyeing Mr Trant with eagerness. His manager ordered:

“Get me the strap.”

An evil glint appeared in Mr Kettleblack’s eyes and he grinned: “Right away.”

Turning back his attention to Sansa, Trant spat out: “I’ll teach you a lesson. I should never have hired the likes of you... you or yer good for nuffin’ little brother.”

Sansa managed to sit up, tears welling up in her eyes from the pain, she began: “Sir, please-“

Mr. Trant sneered: “- Why can’t you even walk proper with a fuckin’ vase in yer ‘ands ...Osmund! Where the hell’s the strap?!”

Kettleblack returned and tossed the whip to his boss.

 

Laughter rumbled from within Mr. Trant’s throat as he moved to grab her arm. However, fear getting the better of her, Sansa scurried out of his reach to the corner of the wall. As he made another grab for her, Sansa began to furiously kick out at him, making Trant even more furious growling:

“You dare to disobey me order? You scum! Osmund, help me here!”

Osmund caught Sansa’s arm and shoved her to the ground, facedown, and planted a boot on her back. Mr. Trant raised the strap and slashed it down, Osmund removing his foot just in time.

 _Swish_!

The sound echoed through the compound.

The first strike whacked on her thin coat and Sansa felt her skin being sliced through. All too soon after the strike, she sensed wetness seeping on her back and through her clothes. – _Blood_... _my blood_...

Mr. Trant sneered and let the leather lash at the back again: “This’ll teach your stubborn spirit to obey when you’re supposed to.”

The next strike was sharper, more forceful...

Then the next...

And the next...

— _swish!_

_—swish!_

_—swish_!

 

Sansa did not make a sound as she felt tears roll down her cheeks, tasting salty as they reached her mouth. She closed her eyes at the sheer pain that burnt her skin like hot iron.

_This is it... I’m going to die..._

 

Mr. Trant raised the whip once more in midair. As he was ready to swing it down, a smile formed on his red face for he felt power surging in his blood. The whip was an inch away from striking Sansa’s back when he felt an iron hand crushing his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

Pain shot through his arm with a powerful force that made him cry out.

He twisted around, fury rising within him once more, tempered with whoever had the gall to interfere and, in the process, harm him.

However, Trant’s red gaze came to face to face with a wall of a black overcoat. When he lifted his head up, he could only make out the silhouette of a tall, well-built man. In the dimness of the winter afternoon, he didn’t notice the fury in the eyes glaring down at him, nor did he notice the elegant, well-cut trousers and overcoat or the artfully arranged cravat on the stranger’s person. He did, however, feel terror piercing through him, lost for a moment as he stared at the gigantic shadow before him.

When he shook his senses free from the momentary dread this giant had given him, he shoved the man. Yet, the giant did not seem the least bit affected; remaining standing solid as a rock.

Anger rising above the previous fear, Mr. Trant growled, “What’s this?” before shoving the stranger a second time.

Yet, the second time seemed to be as fruitless as the first: the large man had not moved.

 

“Hey, ’tis none of yer business, so leave. I’m teaching that brat a lesson. If you won’t leave, I’ll do the same to you, you ‘ear? And sack you, too!”

A hard, ominous voice retorted: “I do believe there are other ways to teach that child a lesson,” before the stranger shoved Mr. Trant back. – Unlike the man, Mr Trant moved back several steps, losing some balance to the point of nearly falling on his back.

His knees were shaking, either out of fear or anger, Trant tried to stand his ground and sound as threatening, as he pointed his finger at Sansa on the ground:

“’Tis not yer business, so leave it be. This brat destroyed one of me precious and most expensive vases. He’s just a slum kid. No use in this world. A pest!”

However, the stranger seemed as unaffected by the man’s words as he had by the Trant’s shoves, and reinforced his previous statement, his voice even lower and heated:

“This is no way to teach that boy a lesson, do you hear?... Not by beating. Especially not by beating.”

Mr. Trant gritted back: “It’s none of yer business!”

Before he decided to best ignore the large stranger and turned back his attention to the boy on the ground and raised his whip again.

However, before the leather could reach its intended destination, Mr. Trant was seized by the arm and swung around, and a large gloved fist flew in the air and smashed his face. His heavy body slammed against the wall and then crashed to the ground near Sansa.

At once, Osmund Kettleblack rolled up his sleeves and marched toward the stranger.

 

Sansa heard a voice cry out: “Behind you!” – _Arya’s..._

 

The stranger twisted and ducked low, slipped around to Kettleblack's back, got him by the arm and punched him hard in the face. The man fell to the ground, unconscious. Gratified by the outcome, the stranger turned toward the ragged form on the ground. He pulled the body up and gruffly said:

“You all right, boy?”

Sansa, awe mixing with trepidation at the large man before her, could only nod. - _He smashed Mr. Trant’s face_!

Even as the thought ran through her and the fact that she had seen it for herself, she couldn’t believe it! - No one had ever stood up to Mr Trant.

... _He saved me_.

 

She struggled to her feet and was about to say thank you when her knees gave out. Thankfully, before her meek body collapsed to the ground again, she felt large hands catch her and take her within his strong arms, righting her back up once more.

 _Warmth_...

Heat emanated from the man’s chest, making Sansa want to close her eyes and stay in his arms forever.

 

By this point, Mr. Trant had regained his senses and scrambled up, barking, “What in hell d’you think yer doing?”

Looking up from the slim body in his arms, the stranger growled: “Saving the life of a boy you are trying to kill.”

“Like I said, ’tis none of yer business. That bastard destroyed me vase, and he can't pay for it.”

“How much was the vase?”

Trant snapped back, his eyes flaring: “Ten Dragons... You see? The bastard couldn’t pay for me vase if he worked for the rest of ’is life. And the same goes for you!... Yer fired! You hear? Yer fired!”

The stranger retorted: “I don’t give a damn because I don’t work for you.”

Mr. Trant’s mouth hung open for a second in confusion before he recovered himself. “That brat broke me vase. I’ll kill ’im if it pleases me to.”

The stranger glanced at Sansa for a split second and turned his attention to the manager. “What’s your name? So I can pay you.”

Sansa snapped her head up to look at her saviour. Her already-pale face turned even paler with horror. All that she could see of him, however, was the shadow of his strong features.

Mr. Trant stammered, clearly taken off guard: “Are you serious?”

Irritation clear in his voice, the large man gritted back: “Does it look like I’m jesting?”

A small smile appeared on Mr. Trant face as he replied: “No.”

 

“Seaworth, my satchel.”

Mr. Trant looked with confusion into the growing darkness. At first he saw no one, but then a shadow of a man appeared with a black leather bag.

The stranger retrieved a wad of pound notes and a heap of sovereigns while Mr. Trant stared as though his very life depended on them. Mr. Trant snatched the pile when the stranger handed it to him and moved to the window to catch light from the building. There he started counting the notes and golden coins to make sure they added up to the sum he wanted. His eyes flared with greed when he saw there was extra money—over double the amount he had announced.

“The rest is for the release of this boy from the contract you made him sign. He is no longer your property, nor will he work for you further. You have no rights from this moment forward in any way over the boy.”

His man – Seaworth – spoke: “My lord, ’tis getting late.”

Mr. Trant snapped his head up and widened his eyes, as his body shook. “My _lord_?”

Seaworth said, “Aye, he is his lordship, the Count of Dragonstone.”

 

 

. . . . . .

 

 

As Davos announced his title, Stannis noticed the owner of the factory paralyze before he started to rush forward and mumbled apologies.

Stannis, however, did not give that excuse for a human any attention.

Instead, he looked back down at the youth, feeling the small body getting weaker and leaning further into his chest and arms. Stannis frowned as he noted that the boy was unconscious. Left with no other choice, he picked the body up in his arms and carried him toward the carriage.

 

However, before he was able to open the door of the coach, a cry came from the side:

“That’s my si- brother! Where are you taking him?!”

 

Stannis stopped and turned to a smaller form running towards him, or more specifically towards the boy in his arms.

Upon reaching him, the dark haired boy’s gaze moved from Stannis to his brother’s form on Stannis’ arms. Finally he seemed to have come to some decision, and brought some sense of courage and asked, his voice shivering slightly:

“He... he’s my brother... I need to take him home.”

Stannis, knowing that the small boy would not have the strength to carry his older brother, asked: “What is your name?”

The boy blinked a few times before, his eyes narrowing slightly before he answered: “Arry.”

“And your brother’s?”

“... Alayn... Please, sir... Can I take him home?”

Stannis ignored the plea and instead asked further:

“Where is your home, Arry? I want to make sure Alayn and you get there safely and see that your parents are taking good care of both your brother and you.”

At the request, Stannis noticed the boy’s eyes widen before he lowered his gaze and said in a small voice:

"It is in the middle of the country, sir. It isn’t very far, my lord. You can drop just leave us. I can take Alayn... I’ll walk us home.”

Stannis narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t be a fool! Your brother is unconscious. And even though he is clearly malnourished, his weight is probably nearly twice your own.”

 

As the boy just stared at him in a mix of trepidation and clearly wanting to retort, Stannis decided to finish the discussion before they all freeze or worse, his brother die from his injuries.

“Look, I’m taking you to your home, is that clear? When I want something done, something I consider to be right, I expect it to be done. Do you understand?”

 

Arry bit his lip, his gaze going between Stannis and his brother’s limp form, before he finally gave a small conceding nod.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

It had taken a little more persuading to get the boy into the carriage and inform Stannis of the location of his and his older brother’s home, which was actually quite a distance away, even in a carriage. Finally after some deliberation they were off: Stannis and Davos on one side of the carriage, the boy Arry sitting on the other, with his elder brother lying unconscious next to him, his head on his brother’s lap – after he had insisted vehemently that ‘ _Alayn would stay on his side, with him’_.

They had barely moved from the factory grounds before Stannis noticed that the small boy was shivering, clearly from the cold seeping into the carriage. His brother would probably also be shivering (more) if awake. Without further ado, Stannis took the carriage blankets Davos and he had been using before the incident and gently wrapped both boys with them, Davos thankfully helping him.

The boy Arry seemed to be too wary or fearful of both men to actually move and help them, as they covered him and his brother. The only thing he did do was hold his older brother closer to him, press his face softly closer to his small stomach.

Soon enough everybody was once more sitting silently in the carriage, three pairs of eyes studying each other, whilst the fourth one stayed oblivious to the happenings around him. Stannis’ main focus was to the youth lying unconscious on the seat opposite him. His (own) younger brother was also looking down worriedly at his sibling’s face. As for Davos, Stannis knew he was not only observing not only the two boys but him as well.

Instead of wondering what might be going on inside the mind of his right hand man, Stannis continued to study the two new additions to their travel. Both boys were quite dirty and scrawny, most likely from malnourishment. He had already previously observed when he had picked up the boy and then when covering him with the blanket that the boy’s clothes were beyond the usual wear and tear of working in a factory, they were clearly torn. Nevertheless, anger rose through him as he discerned scrapes and scratches on the older boy’s face, hidden underneath the dirt, in addition to the red gashes that had been visible on his back.

Trying to control his temper in front of the two innocent boys, Stannis took out his handkerchief, and passed it to Arry:

“Here, wipe your face as well as your brother’s.”

Arry looked from the offered object to Stannis and back to it, as if either Stannis or his handkerchief would bite him. Finally after what seemed like an eternity, he grudgingly took it, mumbling a small ‘ _thank you’_.

Stannis watched as the boy carefully started wiping his older brother’s cheeks and then forehead, before he noticed tears had formed and were starting to fall down the boy’s face. With a quivering voice, still looking down at his older brother, the youth murmured:

“It’s all my fault... I broke that stupid vase... I should have been the one whipped...”

Teeth clenching, remembering, first, the cries, and then the scene of the man beating a boy barely half his size, Stannis growled: “Neither one of you should have been beaten.”

At the ardour of the statement, the boy looked up at him, the tears still slowly sliding down his pale dirty cheeks:

“What’s going to happen to ... Alayn?... is ... is he going to be alright?... Why won’t he wake?”

 

Not one use to comforting children, yet not one to lie, Stannis uncomfortably said:

“It’s best if he rests; asleep he won’t feel the pain...”

The boy face fell back down to gaze at his brother as he only gave a small nod of understanding.

Stannis found himself watching the two boys till both were asleep. Not long after, the rocking of the carriage travelling along the country road and the weariness of his own long journey from Kings Landing got the better of him and closed his own eyes, drifted into a slumber.

 

. . . . .

 

Sometime later Stannis was jerked awake by the carriage halting and the small boy – Arry – pushing past Davos and himself, out of the carriage, before the door had been open for him. Steadying himself, Stannis slowly stood up and stepped out of the carriage himself, looking around as he saw the boy running towards a small cottage, crying out: “ _Yoren! Yoren!”_

Stannis frowned. Using the man’s given name Stannis had to assume that he was not the boys’ father. Which lead to the question: _where is the father?... Or the mother, for that matter_?

However before he could give any more thought to the query, an older man, with similar dark hair to the two boys emerged from the hut, looking worriedly at Stannis and the coach behind him.

Understanding some of the man’s worry, Stannis turned back to the carriage and, with Davos’ assistance, shifted the unconscious boy into his arms. When he turned back towards the cottage, he saw the man moving awkwardly at an unbalanced pace, approaching them. Seeing Stannis moved towards him, the man stopped his eyes fixed on the form in Stannis’ arms as they came closer.

 

Finally, he was led inside.

Stannis found himself ducking to get through the door and entered a small room. It didn’t contain much—just an old settee, a table, and some chairs near the open fireplace, which was burning brightly and heating a pot of boiling soup.

The man – _Yoren_ – spoke gruffly, obviously not in the best of conditions: “Thank you for bringing them both home... Arry told me what happened.”

Stannis nodded and glanced at Alayn. “The boy has been beaten. He will need a few days of rest to heal.”

Yoren gave another bow of the head, continuing his thanks: “Thank you again, sir.”

Stannis moved further inside, boy still in his arms, two pairs of eyes looking at him as he asked: “May I ask at who I am assisting aid to?”

The man, blinked, his eyes going from Arry back to Stannis: “My apologise, sir: my name is Yoren ... Yoren Stone. And these boys that you have already met are Arry and Alayn... they are my late sister’s.”

Stannis introduced himself in return as Stannis Baratheon.

Davos Seaworth, who had been standing behind him during the whole exchange, hastily added: “’Tis his lordship, the Count of Dragonstone.”

Mr. Stone widened his eyes— _in both fear and confusion_ , Stannis thought - not missing the fact that Mr. Stone stared at the younger boy for a moment or two, as if there was some kind of silent communication between them. They did not look at all comfortable at the mere mention of his title, but it didn’t seem like the usual awkwardness that followed being introduced to people of a lower class. - Mr. Stone even frowned slightly.

Covering his facial expression the older man spoke clumsily, “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

Stannis only gave a curt nod as means of saying that no harm had been done.

 

Mr Stone, a little more relived, took a small step forward this time looking once more at the body still in Stannis’ arms.

“I’ll take Aly up to his room.”

However, having studied and knowing that the older man was in a weakened condition, Stannis responded by asking: “Where is his room?

Mr. Stone protested: “My lord, you know you don’t have to do that.”

Stannis noted that he even sounded irritated, and couldn’t help but wonder _why_? - _He should be thankful for the help_.

“I think your nephew needs a good wash, sleep and food.”

Clearly still very worried for his brother and wanting him to lie down, the young boy spoke, leading Stannis to a small door way. “This way... _please_.”

The room was very small, with a bed on each side. Arry led him to one, where Stannis gently laid Alayn down. He knew the wound was still very sore of the boy, so he tried to do it as gently as possible.

He had barely, placed the boy on the bed when, his brother once more became a little more defensive:

“You should go down... my lord, I’ll make sure Alayn is all right.”

Not wanting to argue with the worried youth, Stannis only gave a curt nod. At the door he turned once more to look at the sleeping boy before he rotated on his heels, and headed back to the large room.

Not long after, after exchanging a few last words to Mr Stone, Davos and himself started heading out of the small cottage. At the door, Stannis decided to also give Mr. Stone some money. The man first refused, but when Stannis pointed out they’d need it for medical care and to buy food, the man finally accepted the additional support.

 

He had just opened the coach door when he heard again a young person crying out.

“Sir, sir!... _My lord_.”

Stannis turned to see Arry calling him.

Upon reaching Stannis, the boy lowered his face and mumbled at his dirty boots: “I wanted to thank you for saving Alayn and for bringing us home.”

Stannis only gave a nod in response – not use to thanks, especially for just doing what any should have done: “All the thanks I need is knowing that you will look after him well - won’t you?”

Arry looked up, his eyes large and twinkling nodded in earnest. “Oh, I will. Don’t you worry. Alayn is all I have left.”

Stannis frowned at the somewhat confusing statement since he also had his uncle, but made no further comment.

 

 

. . . . .

 

 

_Her surroundings were hazy._

 

_Sansa fluttered her eyes open and tried to think where she was._

_Then she realized that she was outside, in the night, a forest surrounding her. The only light came from the moon above her. It had snowed. A heavy white blanket covered every surface around her. She herself was wearing a long white robe, as if a continuation of the snow at her feet. More snow seemed to be falling softly around her, continuing to cover all._

_Unsure where she was, but wanting to find out, she took small steps forward, moving through the trees. Her exploration continued for a while longer until she noticed movement in front of her._

_Her first reaction was fear gripping her. – A large form was coming towards her._

_Although it was moving slowly towards her, it seemed somewhat threatening: a dark ominous presence in contrast with the shimmering snow around it, unaffected by the white flecks that were fluttering around it._

_She narrowed her eyes at the silhouette._

_She realized it was a stag. A very large stag; strong and powerful. Larger than any she had ever seen, even those the men used to bring back from the hunts in her youth. Yet, oddly enough, her curiosity for the animal trumped her misgivings of it, with Sansa moving a few steps closer. Mirror to her own gaze, she could feel him looking at her, as if he was appraising her._

_Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the stag vanished, as did the moon, the trees and the snow._

_Sansa gave a cry of protest but nothing happened._

_She started moving in the darkness. Not knowing where she was or where she was going, she cried out once more._

 

_“Sansa! Sansa!”_

_Sansa turned her head as she heard her name being called._

_“Sansa! Wake up, Sansa!”_

 

Finally her eyes opened and the darkness was gone.

Sansa blinked and looked around in confusion. The world was spinning, which caused her to feel nauseated. She closed her eyes again to gain her composure. Feeling a little more settled, she opened her eyes once more and saw the shadowy figure of a boy with messy dark hair hovering above her.

“Arya!” she cried, as her heart slowed from its furious beating. She shot up and hugged her sister.

However, with the moment, she felt pain run through her. Probably having noticed the wince or the odd twitching of her sister’s body, Arya slowly let go of Sansa’s body and carefully helped her back down on the mattress, as she spoke, concern in her voice:

“Sansa, you need to be careful: you’re still very much injured.”

Sansa tried to calm herself down. She shut her eyes for a moment and breathed in and out slowly, but said nothing in response, not wanting to make Arya more worried more than she obviously already was.

When she opened her eyes, she noticed Arya peering over her pale face, clearly upset. “You don’t look well...”

Not wanting to see her sister’s unjustified guilt in her eyes, Sansa moved her head slowly, taking in her surroundings. It took several moments to realise she was back in Arya and her room, making her frown. - She had no recollection of how she got there, or how her sister and her sister got home.

However, before she could ask Arya, her sister moved away from her, calling out: “Be right back, I was about to get the hot water and sponge when you woke up... both Yoren and the lord man said your wounds needed cleaning.”

 

Sansa’s delicate, shapely back jerked as it was bathed clean with the heated water. Arya stared long and hard at the hot red wounds crisscrossing along the length of the slender back. She could almost hear the slashing sound of the strap striking.

As she helped Sansa turn over, and put on several lengths of clean wrap and then a clean shirt, she couldn’t help but grind her teeth:

“If I could I would have killed him, Sansa. Him and his fucking lap dog, Kettle-fucker.”

Sansa muttered in response, trying not to wince: “Don’t be foolish Arya. You wouldn’t have lasted two moments near them...”

Looking back up, the shirt on her, Sansa noticed tears starting to form in her sister’s eyes:

“Why did you do it Sansa? Why did you take the blame? It should have been _me_...”

“- I had to protect you. You’re my little sister. Who knows what could have happened-”

\- They would have killed _you_. If that lord - dragon – man hadn’t showed up and stop-“

“-But he did.”

 

Sansa felt pain within her heart as she watched the tears starting to silently move down her sister’s cheeks. Already at ten and four year, her sister had suffered enough hardship to last a life time. But at least Sansa still had her. – _Unlike Bran and Rickon... Robb... Father and Mother..._

Trying to stop her voice from shaking, she tried to reassure her sister: “Arya, it’s going to be all right. We’ll get through this.”

Arya retorted in vehemence, always the angry one: “No, Sansa! It’s not alright, it’s not going to be alright! You are not all right. You could have _died_. We shouldn’t have gone to work there!”

Sansa tried to be logical: “Arya... please... I’ll get better... soon Yoren will as well... Then we’ll find new work... better work.”

Thankfully, Arya didn’t add any more.

Silently Sansa started arranging the blankets around her so as to indicate Arya slid in next to her, and placed herself on her front so as not to put more pressure on her back. Understanding the unspoken message, Arya cuddled into the bed next to Sansa, making sure not to bump into her and hurt her injuries further.

 

However, after a few moments of silence, Sansa heard her sister muttered gloomily: “... how can you still believe that Sansa?... life isn’t a song.”

Sansa only sighed as a response, looking at her pillow. With a heavy heart, she wished she couldn’t feel the same, that she could tell Arya that she was wrong. She tried not to think about the past because it was too painful. Instead she foolishly hoped for a better future...

 

It was only when her eyes finally closed that she remembered the stag she had been dreaming about; the stag surrounded by snow.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

For the next few days, things _did_ change.

Some for the better: Yoren had been able to get some medicine for both Sansa and himself, and both were getting better. Unfortunately a little more slowly for Sansa: the next several mornings she would wake up shivering, her back stinging from sweats of a fever. Which lead to the less pleasant changes: until the fever subsided and the red marks of her back started fading, Yoren forced Sansa to stay in bed with nothing to do but stare down at her pillow and think of the past and possible futures for them, when Arya wasn’t around to entertain her.

Ultimately, much to Yoren, and even Arya’s protests, after four days of being cooped up, she would come to the main room more and more; at a bare minimum to make supper, or more and more, to do laundry and sew back the holes of the used clothes. On the other hand, Sansa did concede to stay seated as much as possible, to not go out in the cold... and, of course, go back to the girls’ room the moment she felt tired or when the dull ache along her back became too pronounced.

 

The other main problem was _work_.

Every time the issue of finding work came about, Yoren insisted he be the one to find employment, not Sansa or Arya. - When Sansa had mistakenly brought up the idea of returning to a factory for work, Yoren had protested fiercely against it:

“You could have been killed Sansa! You and Arya!... What if next time there isn’t someone there to stop them from beating you?! Or worse: what if somebody found out you’re a girl? I couldn’t stand that. They might do something terrible to you. I won’t allow it!”

“Don’t worry, I will be fine. Nobody will find out, and if someone did, what could any of them do to me except beat me? And after all, I’ve managed to survive this last one and several others before.”

But Yoren had only muttered in disgust that Sansa didn’t truly know how depraved men could truly be.

Sansa had then suggested: “If you don’t want me to do any more men’s work, perhaps I could find women’s work to do?”

Yoren had only growled further: “It would only make things even more dangerous for you, Sansa... the world is much more dangerous for a woman... especially for one as young and innocent as you.”

 

. . . .

 

By the sixth day after the factory incident, Sansa’s fever was all gone and her wounds were more or less healed – except for the occasional sting with a cold gust of wind and of course the actual marks that were still visible when she undressed.

It was also the first time she had dreamed of the stag since the beating.

Sliding out of her bed, Sansa frowned, trying to understand the meaning of the dream. Similar to the last time there had been snow covering everything, however there was no further snow that had been falling, allowing her to observe the stag more clearly. Unfortunately, just like the last time, the stag had still been too far away by the time she had woken up.

Shaking her head she removed her nightshirt and put on a pair of small breeches, a clean shirt and her gray coat. She then moved to the basin and mirror, rinsing her face before studying how still quite pale she was. Looking at the mirror, she also realised that her hair would soon need to be re-cut and re-dyed. Knowing she couldn’t well do either by herself now, she quickly tied it and put her usual cap.

More or less satisfied with the outcome, she made her way to the main room.

 

As she opened the door from the small corridor, a voice spoke:

“You shouldn’t be up and about.”

Sansa wanted to roll her eyes: in the last week Yoren have become even more protective and over-bearing. But that didn’t change the fact that neither him nor Arya had any decent skills in the kitchen or when it came to repairing clothes.

However, before she could take a further step into the room, she stopped short and stared at the tall stranger sitting near the fireplace, realising that he had been the one to speak to her. She could not seem to breathe at all as she stood there, staring at him in shock - this man was simply too imposing for words.

The deep voice spoke once more: “Good morning, Alayn; I am Stannis Baratheon... Count of Dragonstone. We ... briefly _met_ a week ago.”

Sansa couldn’t help herself and shivered all over.

She licked her lips, blinked twice, before her mind decided to start working again, and she gave a small nod of agreement: “Y-yes... I remember, M-my lord... Arry told me the rest ... of what happened.”

Returning her nod, his eyes followed her as she slowly walked further into the room – to the other end of the room, farthest from him – before he asked calmly inquired: “Ah. And how is your back?”

Sansa shuddered once more, now even more aware that her back was bare underneath her shirt and that she had forgotten to wrap a clean set of bindings around her torso. This would have been more or less fine except for the fact that the cloth had the double use of also hiding her _feminine attributes_. Fortunately, with an internal sigh of relief, she was thankful that she at least had her coat on, which would hopefully help in hiding the most of her mummery... she was also grateful for the fact that her breasts were not _too_ pronounced.

 

His study of her person continued as her lack of an answer persisted till his eyes reached her feet:

“Do you not have socks? You will only end up getting sick once more if you do not wear socks.”

Before she could think up a coherent answer – for either this comment or the previous inquiry – another voice piped up, Arya’s, making Sansa turn her head abruptly to the right and realise that there had been another person in the room: “I’ll go up and get the socks.”

Before Sansa could blink, her sister dashed out the room.

Her eyes moved back from the door Arya had gone through to study the main room, making sure to skip over the area near the fireplace. – Her shoulders slumped the smallest amount when she realised that, this time, she was indeed alone with the tall, dark stranger.

 

Feeling his gaze still on her, Sansa forced herself to turn back her attention to the lord. Blushing, rumbing her hands together nervously, she asked: “What are you doing here, my lord?”

One shapely dark brow raised as midnight-blue eyes bore into her, making Sansa realise how brazen she had sounded, and, in turn, making her cheeks redden further.

“I wanted to inquire on the state of the boy I’ve saved from a beating.”

Her blush seemed unable to stop deepening as she clamped her lips together and lowered her eyes.

Probably realising that Sansa’s silence would continue, the Count spoke once more:

“You should come closer to the fire. Even when your brother comes back with the socks, it’s best to stay close to the warmth, especially in your weakened state.”

When Sansa made no move towards the fireplace – _and nearer to him_ – but instead only blinked at the man anxiously. Unfortunately, he reinforced his directive by patting the seat next to him – “ _Come_.”

Finding no excuse to not obey the command, Sansa slowly and reluctantly came to sit beside him on the settee.

Once she was settle, she couldn’t help but notice the different in size between the two of them: her small frame appeared to have been swallowed up by his large one. It didn’t help that he turned his torso slightly toward her, making his shoulders seem even broader, nor the fact that he placed one of his arm over the settee just behind her head, making Sansa feel even more cornered.

Mercifully, that was when Arya returned, looking triumphant: “I have the socks.”

Sansa sighed with relief, both for the appearance of another person in the room and having something to do other than being aware of the large man’s presence. She took the thick, woollen socks Arya gave to her and put them on.

 

 

**. . . . . .**

 

 

As he continued to watch over the lad putting on the socks, Stannis could not miss how tense he had been the whole time that Stannis had been in his presence. He couldn’t help but wonder if the boy naturally had a nervous disposition, or if the beating form a week ago had triggered it... or if his own presence in this boy’s home was the main cause. – The last reason appealed the least to him, but Stannis had to acknowledge that his status and larger presence could have a negative effect. – And let’s not forget Davos’ subtle but constant suggestions that Stannis could try and be more _pleasant_ to others.

 

Playing little attention to the younger, he continued to study the boy as he slipped on both socks. When Stannis had first noticed the bare feet, he had been unable to observe how small and _delicate_ they had seemed. Now that they were finally covered, and somewhat protected, relief ran through him.

Satisfied, he looked once more at the rest of the lad. He was definitely small for his age, just like his younger brother; one of the results of poverty unfortunately. Yet it was more than that: the skinny hands and wrists, the small straight nose, the generous lips, and the small chin.... Regardless of the cap and the messy hair stinking out, covering part of the face, Stannis had even previously noticed the wide innocent blue eyes... From all this, Stannis decided that the boy was... _pretty_ \- that is if a boy could actually be considered _pretty_.

Yet this anomaly didn’t seem all that strange, since Stannis had also noticed similar features on the younger brother. On the other hand, Arry seemed somewhat stronger and gruffer, even though he was the younger.

Turning his gaze back from the smaller lad to his older brother, Stannis, once more, tried to hold back another frown as he realised how little the boy had actually said to him, and was _still_ avoiding his gaze. – _Am I truly that terrifying? Surely he should be more receptive, no? I did save him from possible death_!

Not one to usually wait so long for answers, Stannis commanded: “So, tell me how you are faring.”

There was a moment of hesitation, before came the weak reply in a voice that did not sound like that of a boy from the slum of the Stormlands:

“I-I am fine, my lord, much better. My back is nearly as good as new.”

Stannis gave a nod of satisfaction, though still a little irritated that the lad would still not look at him. The boy seemed to have regained some courage though, as he continued to speak, his lips trembling in the most intriguing way:

“You... you were very kind, my lord. Arry told me that you not only stopped Mr Trant for beating me further but you gave him money for the broken vase... I don’t know how just yet, but I assure you that we _will_ repay you.”

Irritation rose within him as he retorted:

“Alayn, you don’t have to repay me.”

At the reply, the boy finally looked up at Stannis, making him note the frustration maring the boy’s features, and that tears were forming in the corner of his eyes:

“But that _money_... the money you gave Mr. Trant; it’s _too_ much.”

“Not much to me.”

The boy gaped, making Stannis insist further:

“I want no repayment.”

“It’s charity.”

“It’s a _gift_.”

Thankfully, his brother seemed to have more sense than him and further stated: “S-Alayn... if his lordship wants to gift us the money...”

Yet, the lad insisted: “But we don’t know each other.”

Stannis replied promptly: “We do now.”

Clearly still not convinced, he chewed his lip in frustration before going by a different tactic: “Then how will I ever thank you?”

Stannis couldn’t seem to stop himself from gazing into those wide questioning blue eyes. Blinking, he could only reply gruffly, “A _thank you_ will suffice, Alayn.”

A small frown appeared on the boys face. – Clearly Stannis’ answer had not been satisfactory enough. The boy shifted his gaze to his hands on his lap, clearly in thought, before he finally looked back a Stannis once more, and solemnly stated:

“I _will_ repay you. It is not in my nature to only take. I must give back. Perhaps not in money but in other ways... One day you may want something from me, anything at all. Will you promise to ask me for it? - Whatever it is that you may want.”

As the boy’s eyes continued to bore straight into Stannis with such intensity and fervent, it took him a while before he reluctantly agreed with only a nod of his head.

 

Appreciatively, it was soon after that Mr Stone returned from outside, with more wood under his arms.

Not soon after joining them by the fire the older man cleared his throat and awkwardly bowed his head to Stannis:

“I want to thank you, my lord, for saving us once again.”

At the statement, Stannis notice Alayn’s eyes move to her uncle: “Yoren?...”

Mr. Stone glanced nervously from the boy to Stannis and back, clearly not knowing what to say. Unfortunately, the boy seemed as persistent as for the previous discussion and persisted:

“What haven’t you told me?”

Here was another silent communication between them, before Mr. Stone said, “Mr. Slynt came this morning.”

Alayn looked down in resignation asked – even though he probably already knew the answer: “Did we not have enough?”

His uncle shook his head: “No, my dear... Not enough at all. In fact, I’m not sure how to deal with next month if—”

The boy heatedly sprang up from where he had been seated: “- I’ll find work!”

Stannis couldn’t help butting in. “And get yourself sick once more?”

Turning to face him, Stannis noticed the mix of purpose and gloom in the boy’s eyes: “We don’t have much choice, my lord...”

The look turned somewhat hopeful, when he then added: “... In fact, are you in need of a servant up at your house?”

Stannis had been prepared for this: he had known that sooner or later, Yoren or Alayn or both would have to find a job to support the three of them, which was one of the reasons he had come here today to speak with Mr Stone.

“I have no need for a servant, no. But I do have an offer for you, Mr. Stone.” Turning his attention back to the older man.

The man blinked in response: “An offer... for me, my lord?”

“You mentioned before that you used to raise and train hounds?”

Mr. Stone only nodded.

“I have a cottage down at Dragonstone Estate near the river. It has been neglected for some time and so have my hounds... I would need them trained for next summer’s hunting season.”

Mr. Stone blinked once more in disbelief: “Your hounds keeper, my lord?”

Both boys exclaimed in joy, yet it was the delight in the eldest’s face and voice that gained most of Stannis’ attention. So much so that he nearly forgot to reply:

“Yes, as my hounds keeper.”

The next question was less expected though: “My lord, this cottage—it is far from your Dragonstone Hall?”

Stannis could see the worry in the man’s eyes, though he couldn’t understand the reason.

“Yes, it is quite far. In fact, it is tucked deep in the woods near the river.”

Relief clear on his face, Mr. Stone smiled, “Thank you, my lord. When shall we start?”

Before Stannis could answer, both boys jumped in delight: “How marvellous. Near the river... and we get to raise hounds.”

Stannis turned to the eldest, who had spoken, and felt a little guilty when he corrected him: “Not you, I’m afraid.”

Both suddenly stopped and looked at him in confusion. Frowning, Arry asked: “What do you mean?”

Not turning to the younger, Stannis looked only a little longer at the creases of confusion on Alayn’s face before giving his explanation to the uncle: “I apologize for not asking sooner, but I would like to take your two nephews to my home, at Dragonstone Hall, and foster them both...”

Both Mr. and Alayn stared at him in shock, then turned to look at each other, clearly worried. Even the younger boy didn’t seem convinced by the idea, making Stannis add hastily:

“I assure you I will look after Alayn and Arry like my own kin. They will not be neglected. Besides, Dragonstone Hall is only half an hour’s walk away from the cottage. You can visit anytime you want, and the boys can go to the cottage whenever their lessons and duties are finished.”

Alayn spoke, his voice quivering somewhat: “My lord, I do not think this is a good idea...”

Before the boy could continue, finding arguments against his proposal, Stannis retorted: “I do not want to force you, Alayn, but do you not remember promising that if I ever wanted something of you…?”

 

The boy blinked, mouth still open.

 

There was a long pause before Stannis notice his shoulders drop in acknowledgment.

“Yes... Yes I did, promise.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

As the two sisters approached their destination walking through the trees at the edge of the property, and the down the long plain of grass, the large hall became clearer and more forbidding. At the view, Sansa couldn’t help but think in dread: - _... just like its Master_

The building, as expected, was impressive: it was a massive, five-story building of dark grey stone, with a higher tower at one of the corners. Drawing nearer they could admire the gardens, which edged Dragonstone Hall’s walls, a gallery of long windows that overlooked the grand estate below; which they were walking through. However, the many small dragons carved into the façade of the building, and the two stone dragons framing the internal court gates (which seemed to be watching her) did nothing to calm Sansa’s nerves.

 

All too soon for Sansa’s liking, Arya and her climbed the large-stoned stairs to the front entrance and knocked the dragon shaped knocker on the magnificent oak door before them. Instantly, it was opened, and an elegant, middle-aged man stared down at them.

“May I help you?”

Looking up at the man nervously, she introduced them: “G-good afternoon sir, my name is Alayn Stone; this is my younger brother Arry Stone. We are here to see the Count of Dragonstone.”

The butler gave a small bow of the head: “Ah, yes: the new young Masters. His lordship is expecting you.”

 

The butler led them inside and down a long impressive hallway into what Sansa assumed was the study, before announcing them and leaving Arya and herself alone with the Count.

Sansa stood hesitantly next to her sister in the middle of the room, looking everywhere around her except for at the man sitting behind the huge mahogany desk. She clamped her lips together and nervously looked about the room: it was enormous and beautifully designed. To her left were very tall, bay windows that overlooked the woods to the west of the estate. The thick red velvet drapes were drawn to each side of the windows, allowing winter light to brighten the room. On her right were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves – with small dragons ornaments carved into the wood - filled with hundreds of books, as well as stairs climbing to a balcony where more books were neatly placed on more shelves.

The silence stretched till her eyes subconsciously reverted to the imposing man, whose own concentration was focused on whatever was on the desk: his dark head bowed as he wrote in a book.

She had barely started studying him, when he quickly raised his head, his dark blue-violet eyes meeting directly with her own - as if he had felt her eyes on him.

 

“Alayn! Arry!”

Even knowing that he had been about to speak, Sansa jumped. His tone demanded attention, as for his voice: it caused her blood to sing.

She gave him her sweetest smile, hoping it would please him.

However, as he placed the quill in its holder, his gaze flickered away from her at the gesture and he indicated instead the two chairs in front of the desk as he spoke once more: “You may sit.”

Nodding in compliance, both Arya and she quickly scurried towards the elegant chairs he’d designated.

His eyes coming back to her, he seemed to study the whole of her small frame before shifting his scrutiny to Arya. He inquired: “How are you?”

Arya – seeming to have none of Sansa’s fears – replied eagerly, grin on her face: “We’re fine. Yoren’s cottage is _amazing_. I can’t wait to see the dogs.”

At the reply, his gaze then turned to Sansa, who had remained quiet, and asked further: “And your wounds? Have they properly healed?”

Sansa gave a small nod, and she shyly replied, moving her eyes away from the penetrative stare: “Yes, my lord. I’m better now. The wounds took a long time to heal, but I’m good and healthy now.”

She felt too shy and awkward to stand up and prove to him more that she was in fact _fine_. – _Hopefully no need for a physical inspection_...

Thankfully, the Count nodded, obviously satisfied. “Good. All that is left to do is welcome you to Dragonstone Hall.”

When Sansa gave him another tentative smile, his dark eyes reverted to her face, before he suddenly got up from behind the chair, making Sansa wonder if she had done anything to annoy him. Before she could think more of her confusion, however, the action of Lord Baratheon standing up whirled Sansa’s mind, as she was reminded of how _large_ he actually was. Turning his back to them, he went to pull on the bell rope, voice sounding a little strange: “I will call on Mrs. Barre, the housekeeper, to show you around.”

As he turned towards them once more, she nodded her head once more in acquiescence at the announcement.

As they waited, Sansa was aware of Lord Baratheon’s gaze going between her sister and her. She also couldn’t help but feel that his dark intense blue-violet eyes would stay longer on her person than Arya. At the ongoing scrutiny, she could only look down at her hands nervously, not knowing what else to do.

 

Thankfully, a moment later, there were three rhythmic knocks at the door.

The Count called out, eyes still on Sansa: “ _Enter_!”

The door opened to reveal a plump, elderly woman neatly dressed in dark gray, only one or two strands of gray hair escaping a neat bun.

Lord Baratheon spoke once more, introducing the both of them to the woman: “Mrs. Barre, these are the boys I spoke of: Alayn and Arry Stone. Please show them to their rooms, and later you will show them around the property.”

“Of course, my lord. Come this way, err…”

Standing up quickly, eager to get away from the large man’s presence and moved closer to the housekeeper, as she replied: “Alayn, just call me Alayn... and Arry, for my brother.”

Lord Baratheon frowned, as he corrected her: “ _No_ , Mrs Barre will not call you _Alayn_. - Mrs. Barre: you will address him as _Master_ Alayn, _Master_ Arry or Masters Stone.”

Bobbing her head in agreement, Mrs. Barre replied: “Yes, my lord.”

Just as she was about to leave the room, reaching the door to join Mrs. Barre, Arya at her heals, Sansa felt the need to turn around and express her gratitude to their saviour- albeit timidly: “Thank you, my lord. You are ever so kind.”

The Count’s eyes met hers and gave a slow nod, but he did not reply. With that, she followed the housekeeper into the hallway.

 

. . .

 

 

Mrs. Barre quickly took both Sansa and Arya to their respective rooms. However, once arrived at a higher floor, Sansa – to the housekeeper’s surprise – insisted that they either share a room or at least have adjoining rooms. She was also firm on the fact that neither her nor her ‘brother’ needed any assistance in the mornings to dress or to bathe.

Settled into their rooms, they were given some refreshments in the shape of tea, before Mrs. Barre gave them to a tour around the Hall. Sansa was not at all been surprised that the tour took the rest of the day as the Hall was as impressive as it had first appeared on their way over. It finished with them being introduced to the rest of the household staff.

Finally, evening arrived, exhausted she welcomed the bath that had been prepared for her in her room. Of course she made sure – and reminded Arya of the same – that all their doors were to be securely locked before taking off their clothes and getting into the warm water. As for dressing, Sansa was grateful that she still remembered most of how Robb, Bran, and Rickon looked and dressed from when she was younger. Arya, on the other hand, definitely needed some assistance in putting on all the correct shirts and breeches, and in the right order.

After helping her sister, she quickly replaced the wrap around her chest before putting on the clean shirt and jerkin, with a jacket above. Unfortunately, the whole neat outfit was somewhat ruined by the old cap she kept on her head. Before coming to Dragonstone Hall, Sansa had of course made sure to reapply dark dye to her hair and had done another quick cut of the ends, but her hair was still longer than Arya’s, as she refused to have it _too_ short.

However, her meticulous care in dressing proved somewhat all for naught, as when they arrived in the dining room for a light supper, the Count was not present, nor did he appear for the rest of the evening.

The next morning, the seat at the end of the table, again, stayed vacant.

Although personally relieved by Lord Baratheon’s absence for both meals, Sansa couldn’t help but inquire as to the reason. The butler – Mr Cressen – was quick to explain that his lordship was known to take most of his meals in his study, and could spend days on end there, rarely coming out.

 

So, as the week progressed, Sansa’s and Arya’s days were filled with meals in the dining room, lessons in the mornings with the tutor, Master Pylos, and spending the rest of their days wandering round the property. – For herself, Sansa spent most of her time either taking strolls through the Hall familiarizing herself with where all the rooms were or going to Aegon’s Garden, which had been pointed out during the tour. Although they were still in the middle of winter, and none of the flowers were in bloom, it was still beautiful, despite a haunting quality to it. In any case, it was the closest thing to the Godswood and the peaceful quality that had accompanied the wooded area.

When needing a reprieve from the silence and needing distraction from her thoughts, she would either join the staff and Mrs Barre in the kitchen – much to the housekeeper’s protests – and ask questions about the Hall (though too shy to ask directly questions about its master), or more preferably, join Arya in what seemed to have become her sister’s favourite part of the Hall: the stables.

After dinner, the evenings were spent either in her room or her sister’s, the both of them playing or talking about the past, the future... till they both would fall asleep in the same bed.

The one constant of each day was the absence of the lord of the manor.

 

. . .

 

 

On the fifth day at Dragonstone, during one of her wanderings, she encountered a large brightly lit room which had not been part of the initial tour. Curiosity getting the better of her, Sansa couldn’t help herself from wandering in.

The room was very large and elegant, nicely refurbished with thick velvet drapes and upholstery. A settee and two chairs were positioned near the hearth, and three large bay-windows overlooked the property.

On the facing wall were two portraits. One was of a man wearing a navy blue riding habit and astride a horse; she couldn’t help but think he looked very handsome. Akin to Lord Baratheon, Sansa noticed the dark hair and the intense dark blue eyes. On the other hand, the man was smiling, something Sansa had yet to see on the Master of the house. She wondered who he was. She turned her attention to the other painting. It was of portrait of a woman: a very fine and delicate woman with silver-gold hair whose beauty was almost unworldly. She seemed quite slender and small, especially next to the other portrait, with fine, pale, porcelain skin, near translucent. Out of all the details of the woman, it was her big purple eyes that called ones attention.

 

“-Alayn?”

Sansa jumped, hearing her name as well as recognising the source. Blushing profoundly, she stammered a greeting as she turned to the large man who was coming into the room: “M-my lord, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Now fully into the room, she unconsciously took a step back, having had a proper look at him: four days in his absence had made her momentarily forget how tall and imposing he was.

 

 

**. . . . . . . . .**

 

 

 

Stannis silently tried to push back his irritation and tried to not grit his teeth: the boy was _still_ very much frightened of him; the reality was clear straight away.

Yet he also accepted, somewhat reluctantly, that locking himself in his study for the past few days probably would not have helped in resolving the issue. He also internally established that he definitely preferred observing the youth when he was in dreamlike state than when the boy reminded him of a small fawn ready to run at the smallest provocation.

There was definitely _something_ about the boy that intrigued Stannis. – _What?_  he did not know, and that was the true source of his frustration.

He couldn’t put his finger on it. It had first started at the uncle’s cottage, when Stannis had noticed the small size and delicate features of the lad. Then, when he had first greeted them at five days ago, he had been unable to not notice the boy bite his lip, before smiling the brightest smile Stannis had ever seen, making them glisten bright red. A warmth he had not understood had rushed through his being then, which had made Stannis frown and abruptly call on Mrs. Barre to give them a tour of the property instead of doing it himself.

Though, on the hand, Stannis refused to acknowledge that this unknown nuisance had any consequence to him staying longer than usual in his study, on taking _all_ his meals there. – It was just the fact that Davos had returned to Kings Landing and was not here to force him away from his desk.

 

But now here he was, this time noting the blush creeping on the boy’s delicate cheeks, as Alayn still would not look directly at him.

Further irritated, Stannis was unable to stop the severity of his tone as he asked: “What are you doing in here?”

Blinking a few times, the boy looked at the floor, clearly thinking he was being chastised for something, as he mumbled hesitantly: “I was just exploring... I noticed this room, and wandered in. I-I apologise if I over stepped in any way.”

 

Not knowing how to respond, and feeling rather foolish, Stannis eyed the boy’s face, noting the light freckles on the bridge of his nose, before forcing his eyes away, regarding the odd cap on his head. He put his hand on it and was about to take it off when Alayn shrieked, as he clamped both hands on top of it, stopping any movement away, “Oh no!”

Confused and still somewhat irritated, Stannis inquired, frowning: “Why on earth do you still wear that, Alayn? It’s old and quite improper for this household.”

But the boy still wouldn’t let go, leading Stannis to grasp him by the arm and pull the boy roughly towards him, whilst his other arm stayed firmly on the cap. At the gauche movement, Alayn collided against his chest, Stannis feeling the smaller body press against his own.

It did not help when moments later, regaining his footing somewhat, the boy gazed up at him, his large doe eyes meeting Stannis’. Lost in the depths of the light blue eyes, Stannis felt his insides shudder with a new, thrilling sensation. - The moment passed, and he released Alayn, causing the lad to stagger backward. He shook his head to clear the abstraction.

Alayn watched him, smiling shyly. Then hesitantly he took his cap off.

Stannis saw the hair and felt the need to laugh, glad for the distraction: it was a mess, like a massive used mop on the boy’s head. It looked as though he had simply used a pair of scissors and chopped the strands off bit by bit.

Tousling the hair fondly, Stannis inquired: “Are you embarrassed?”

Looking at his feet, Alayn only pursed his lips together and nodded bashfully. Stannis put his arm around his shoulders and patted his head once more before trying to reassure him: “Don’t worry. You’ll get a great haircut from an expert, my valet.”

Unfortunately, at the thoughtless action, Stannis found his body pressed closed to the boy’s once more and the strange sensation from earlier murmured.

He brusquely let go of Alayn and looked around the room – anywhere but the lad. It was then that he realised that the they were alone, his younger brother not there. Trying to calm the gruffness in his voice, Stannis inquired: “Where is Arry?”

Looking back up at him momentarily, before putting his eyes back down, Alayn supplied: “I believe he is outside in the stables.”

Stannis frowned in confusion: “The _stables_?”

“Arry likes being near the horses and dogs... he sometimes helps groom them. I think he’s trying to convince Mr Noye to teach him how to ride.”

Stannis raised his eyebrows in surprise, before wanting to chastise himself for his inadequacies and his general lack of attention to the boys during the week. He knew that Pylos was giving the two boys lessons every morning, however he should have thought of the other needs for the boys. He should have realised that youths that age would probably be interested in outside activities.

 

“And you?”

The boy blinked in confusion: “Me?”

“Are you also interested in learning how to ride?”

The boy shrugged, much to Stannis’ surprise: “I suppose, I prefer just keeping them company... and even more the dogs.” - _what boy doesn’t want to learn how to ride?_

“Well, we’ll have to remedy the situation: I will teach you both how to ride.”

 

He couldn’t help but notice the boy’s eyes bulge out at the statement.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riding lessons and other discoveries.

 

_Gods this is a mistake..._

 

It was more than a mistake: it was a **_big_**... no a **_huge_** mistake.

Something was bound to go wrong: Sansa was on a horse, _astride_.

If Robb could see her now, he would probably laugh. Sansa - who had always dreamed of being the perfect lady as a girl, to the point which she refused to spend too long near a horse, fearing she would smell like it, much less ride it - was in _breeches_ with a horse between her thighs, trying to stay upright, as she clutched to dear life.

The only thing that soothed Sansa’s panicked state somewhat was the existence of an excuse for there to be space between the count and her. His large presence always made her feel overwhelmed and even more reserved than usual. – But it was more than just his physical attributes, or the fact that he had been able to push Mister Trant off his feet with no affect on his own person, or the fact that he had saved her from definite death, that disturbed her mind-set: there was _something_... something _else_ that added to all these things... it was this mysterious _something_ that actually unsettled her more than all the rest combined.

 

Even now, as she was supposed to be focusing on the very large beast between her legs, Sansa couldn’t help but note the impressive height, broad shoulders and muscled thighs, as well as how he moved on the horse. Unlike her, Lord Baratheon was unquestionably **_not_** all over the place, restless or edgy. Instead he was calm, collected, controlled; showing assuredness and a clear mind of reasoning in how both he and the horse should move. The man clearly knew how to ride a horse.

Frustrated of her own lack of control of her own mount, Sansa’s gaze went from the study of his general form to his hands as they gripped the reins and commanded his horse. - Like the rest of him, they were huge. Even his fingers were long and tapered, strong and sturdy; undoubtedly not clumsy and weak like her own. Although she doubted that she would like them near her person, their steadiness and grasp made Sansa wonder about how those same digits would feel like touching her.

 

 

She was studying her own (slightly shaky) fingers, wondering of how she might convince the smelly animal beneath her to move how she wanted, when a large booming voice broke her thoughts:

“Alayn! It’s the _thighs_... your thighs control the horse, not the reigns... that and _confidence_. So that means, you need to stop worrying. Proudwing is one of the calmest, most tame mares we have ever bred at Dragonstone. You really don’t need to be worried; just show her you trust her and she will trust and follow your every direction.

Sansa only blinked up at the count with the widest eyes, as if he had just spoken another language. – He wanted her to _trust_ this huge living thing? And control it with her thin legs?! He must be the one that was touched, if he thought that any of what he had just instructed was going to happen.

However, unfortunately, as if to prove her wrong, Arya seemed more than able to control her horse between her own skinny legs, as she rode past Sansa.

“Come on Alayn! Make your horse move!... Go fast! This is amazing!” Her sister yelled with the biggest grin on her face.

 

Frustrated as well as still very much worried on what ‘Proudwing’ might do next, Sansa was only able to mumble a small: “ _How_?”

Meeting her questioning gaze, Lord Baratheon frowned; most likely confused by the question.

Unfortunately instead of answering, the count edged his horse to align with her own. From there, he took her reigns from her hands; though thankfully Sansa had seen the action coming before it actually happen and was able to avoid her fingers from touching his own.

Sadly her relief was short lived, because, instead of pulling her mount and her behind him (like she assumed), he shifted from his seat till he was able to transfer himself to actually _join_ her on her horse!

Understanding the actual intent as it was in motion, Sansa felt herself pale, whilst her fears pushed her to protest, as she tried to find _any_ excuse for him to stay as far from her as possible:

“No! You cannot! You must not! ...The... the horse will not be able to hold the both of us!” – _You are just so huge... you are going to crush us both: ME and the horse!..._

Unfortunately, Lord Baratheon did not to believe in the validity of her concerns as he continued to settle in behind her on the saddle and scoffed:

“Nonsense – Proudwing can hold quite a bit of weight; not that it matters much as you barely weigh more than a babe.”

Sansa did not reply anything. To be honest, her mind had momentarily gone blank as his large form now fully enveloped her; his hard chest pressing on her back, his thighs tightening close to her own, his muscled arms coming on either side of her small frame as he held the reigns.

 _Yes_... she had been right before: _it could have been_ _worse_... _this_ _much worse_...

 

The count magically instructing the horse to start moving, her body pressed further into the huge man behind her.

“Come on boy- you are too tense... no wonder the horse does not follow you. Horses can feel your nervousness. You need to calm yourself, _relax_.”

Sansa wanted to ask how exactly she was suppose to _relax_ , alas her will to speak had definitely vanished by now.

Of course her mute state as well as her dread of the whole situation only increased as Lord Baratheon continued to try and explain all the ways to ride the horse, and the general pace of their riding started becoming faster.

Even if she might have had liked the feeling of the soft breeze against her face and hair, she was not able to enjoy it. Not only was she becoming more firmly pressed against the man’s broad torso, but the she became aware that the bindings that she had wrapped around her chest were definitely not _tight_ _enough_ for the rhythm of the horse’s gallop, and her more womanly traits were following the movement a bit too much, making themselves known... hopefully only to her.

 

 

. . . . . .

 

 

As Stannis felt the boy’s nervousness against him, he couldn’t help but be somewhat reassured that it wasn’t just _him_ that made the lad tense and uneasy.

Unfortunately as he continued to feel the boy shake, he also became more conscious of the boy’s small figure pressing against his own. He could also notice the boy’s thighs tighten between his own legs and the animal’s, and his rump moving up and down trying to follow the horse’s pace.... but mostly just moving against Stannis’ lower area, his own breeches stirring at the sensation.

 

Stannis earlier had tried to help the boy control Proudwing, giving him helpful suggestions. Unfortunately, once he had met those wondrous – lost - blue eyes, as Alayn requested for more of an explanation, he wanted to do nothing more than sink into them.

Even Fury seemed to have sensed the troubling nature of his musings, and had given Stannis a small snort and shake back to the present reality. Not wanting to lose any more of his composure, Stannis had hastily tried to find the best way to not have deal with that haunting gaze again. Which is when he had the most ridiculous... mindless idea: _join_ Alayn on his horse to show him how to ride.

Why had he thought this a smart idea?

Why had he thought that idea at all?

It had probably been the constant noticing of the boy’s small shaking frame and Stannis’ protective awareness and need towards the boy that had pushed the action to fruition.

Regardless: the result was clear as the sky was blue... and as _evident_ as it was _torturous_...

 _Torture_ that needed to _end_.

 

Teeth clenched as firmly as his hands were griping the reigns (-definitely _not_ grabbing the boy-), Stannis announced the only excuse he could conjure up:

“It is time to head back... dinner party... Lady Florent is hosting a dinner party I have to attend.”

 

Stannis felt disgruntled by the fact that the boy seemed revealed by the news, his frame relaxing the tiniest amount. However, Stannis convinced himself that it was the thought of being away from the horse -not him- that had comforted Alayn.

However, at the call, it was now the other boy’s turn to look like someone had killed his dog. Arry moaned from his horse:

“Sir... do we all have to stop riding? Could I not ride some more...? There _is_ still day light for another couple of hours.”

Relieved that the day had not been a total failure and at least one of the two lads seemed to enjoy himself, Stannis reassured him: “Of course... I just saying that I needed to retire, to get ready for my evening”, his tone a little more severe, he then added in warning: “just make sure you return to the stables before sun down and Cressen needs to fetch you.”

His mood restored, the younger boy gave Stannis a large grin before riding away again.

 

On the other hand, Stannis felt the other boy tense once more against him, as they rode at a slower pace towards the stables. A small – definitely worried – voice came from the front: “I... my lord... _I_ don’t _have_ to continue riding, right?”

Definitely not wanting to be the cause of any current or future torment for the boy, Stannis replied: “Only if you which to.”

 

A few minutes later – and not soon enough for Alayn, from how quickly the boy moved from the horse (and himself) – both where outside the stables, dismounted.

After giving the reigns to one of the stable boys and informing them that Fury was probably galloping freely around the estate, Stannis turned back his attention to his ward. Though he scowled at what his gaze fell upon: Alayn looking more than relieved to be back on firm ground, but still shaking, and even fidgeting strangely, clearly not composed or having enjoyed any part of the afternoon. This strange attitude was to the point which Stannis couldn’t help but feel irritated that he had been unable to bring the boy’s confidence up or remove any of his edginess.

If anything, he had only increased it.

 

 

. . . . . .

 

 

 

Sansa looked at the ground as she tried to shift in her biddings as subtly as possible so that they would still _cover_ key parts of her anatomy whilst stop irritating her skin.

 

However, feeling the count questioning gaze on her, she quickly stopped, realising how unhinged she must look.

Motionless, still being observed, she became unsure what she should do? She wondered if she was to follow the lord or, now that the riding lesson was ( _finally_ ) over, was she free to do as she pleased? - There was nothing more that Sansa wanted to do was leave and have a long bath, to remove the smell of horse, the ache from her thighs, and of course _fix_ her biddings.

However, did she have to wait for him to give her of his presence?

 

Thankfully she soon was given an answer to her worries.

Unfortunately it was not the one she had been hoping for.

“Come Alayn, since you don’t seem to want to continue to ride, you will help me get ready.”

Not wanting to be impolite or make her host think her not grateful for his constant generosity, with a small frustrated sigh, Sansa reluctantly followed the lord into the Hall towards his apartments.

 

 

. . .

 

 

 

There was a small hitch in the back of her throat as Sansa followed the count’s movements, whilst he lead the both of them through the suite, to the walk-in wardrobe.

She watched in fascination as he first took off his jacket and then started undoing his cravat. She could note a certain edginess to his movements that made her think him tired. However this did not hinder on the man’s appeal: the count even looked more _striking_ with his dark hair now dishevelled and his jaw not fully clean shaven. The essence of him seemed to have become more _feral_.

 

Unfortunately, as if sensing her eyes on him, Lord Baratheon turned to face her:

“Perhaps you would like to help?”

The possibility to compelling, Sansa couldn’t help but bite her lip shyly as she nodded.

“All right, come along then. I’ll show you my wardrobe.”

Sansa eyes moved in wonder as she took in all the different colours and patterns of the different materials. Scanning several times over the luxury threads, the detailing of the couture, the desire to run her hands through his clothes increased. However, Sansa forced her mind and heart to calm down and keep some level of decorum.

Instead she obliged herself to listen as Lord Baratheon explained the room’s different sections: his evening outfits were placed in one section, his riding habits next, followed by his day outfits, and his night clothing at the far end.

 

Once the explanation complete, the count gaze fell once more on her, inquiring:

“Can you remember it all?”

He must have noticed her paling as he quickly added:

“You only need to ask if you don’t know.”

Reassured, she smiled uncertainly before slowly walking around, selecting the items that he would need for that evening—with his guidance of course. Once the task complete, she followed him back out into the main room - his _bedroom_. That was of course when Sansa noticed the large bed in the middle of the room, and truly realised that she was alone with Lord Baratheon in his _personal_ chambers.

Unfortunately her heart rate only increased further as she noticed the large tapestry above the bed: a beautiful embroidery illustrating a woodland scene with a large stag in the middle amidst a cluster of trees. – There was definitely something _familiar_ about the picture but she could not place it.

 

Before she could give more thought to the unsettledness of being in a grown man’s room or the tapestry over his bed, she felt a large hand place itself on her shoulder, making her jolt:

“Is everything all right, Alayn?”

Sansa couldn’t help but instantly move away at the touch. However she immediately regretted her action when she noticed Lord Baratheon’s frown in concern. Feeling foolish, she looked at the floor as she nodded:

“I’m all right.”

Clearly not convinced, she could hear the count’s jaw starting to grind softly. Thankfully, instead of pressing her further, he announced gruffly:

“I’m going to have my bath.”

The next sounds were his lordship moving away and the door shutting, leaving her alone in the uncomfortable silence of the room, with only her own pounding heart being felt through her whole body.

 

A mix of not being able to move and wondering what she should be doing meant that Sansa just stood in the same spot for quite a while until a deep voice call out:

“Alayn, my robe!”

 

She quickly took a deep breath, before hurrying towards the sound, with not only the robe but all the other clothes she had selected. Rushing into the room, she started to apologise for any possible error she might have already done:

“I’m sorry, I-”

\- Alas she came to a complete halt, unable to say another word or take another step as she realised what exactly she had walked into...

A small part of her brain heard the count ask: “What took you so long?”

But the question did not truly register, as Sansa was unable to do anything other than her eyes understanding what they were seeing: the image of a very _naked_ count.

 

The only reassuring part of the whole scene was the fact that it was his back that was turned towards her and she wasn’t presented to his _full_ _maleness_.

Yet she couldn’t help but continue to stare at him: following the movement of his arms as they stretched over his head shaking a towel through his hair, or following the small beads of water, slowly running down his spine, glimmering in the fire light, outlining further the firm, muscled structure she had felt pressing against her earlier.

 _Magnificent_.

That was the only word the she would use to describe him right that moment... well maybe _impossible_ , _impressive_ , _large_ ,... but no: he was just _magnificent_.

 

At the continuing study, she soon found she couldn’t breathe properly. It was then that she also realised that her own body had started to tremble-

-“ _Alayn_ , what the hell are you doing?”

She had been staring at him for so long that the count had turned around, most likely frustrated for her lack of attentiveness. – Or more specifically that her _focus_ had definitely not been directed at the right place...

However in turning around, her eyes automatically met his large arms... well-built chest... his flat stomach... and –

\- She shut her eyes abruptly, before she could even let herself catch a glimpse of the _lower_ parts of his body. Instead she twisted around, sure that her face and neck were now bright crimson.

She stammered, trying to think of a word... _any_ word at all: “I… umm...”

There was a definite edge of frustration as well as curiosity (... and possible _humour_?) in the count’s voice this time:

“What’s the matter? Have you never seen yourself naked before?”

At the question, Sansa’s eyes opened, bulging at the floor in front of her: _Yes I have, but I’m quite different from you_!

 

At the lack of answer, more frustration was apparent as he ordered:

“Come here boy, and hand me that robe. I’m getting cold.”

Turning around and moving forward, her eyes firmly fixated on the floor ... and then his bare feet, she shoved the robe to him, refusing to look upwards.

She felt a large hand take the proffered item. Sadly, instead of putting it on, another large hand nudged her chin up with his fingers. Sansa reluctantly lifted her eyes, making sure they move swiftly from the floor directly to intense dark blue eyes, skipping _everything_  between the two points.

His gaze penetrating into her very soul, Sansa felt the count’s concern as he inquired once more:

“What’s the matter, Alayn?”

Her voice lamentably could not stop shaking, even as she tried to build all her courage: “N-nothing...”

 

Not liking the scrutiny of his stare, she then shifted her eyes to the room and noticed the bath.

Hope was ever present as she squeaked: “Shall I throw out the bathwater?”

Before she could take one step away from him however, he caught her arm.

“The servant can do that. You can help me dress.”

When she nodded in servitude, he let go of her arm and finally put on the robe. - _Thank the Gods_...

 

Finally able to look more properly at the count, she watched silently as Lord Baratheon went to the mirror quickly finished drying his dark hair with the towel before picking up a brush from the table and combing it. The task complete, he turned to her once more.

“Come here with the clothes.”

Taking a few steps closer, Sansa did as instructed. Remembering his previous instructions, she handed him the white shirt first.

Unfortunately that is when the count decided to untie his robe, and uncover himself once more, dropping it at his feet. The action was not even half way complete, before Sansa gave a squeak as her face became bright red once more and she twisted around, away from him.

There was a small scoff before his lordship stated:

“Just wait for a few more years and you will look not too different from myself...”

There was a small pause as Sansa felt his gaze continue to study her back.

“... However you are definitely _small_... _too_ damn thin.”

 

Not liking the count’s criticism of her appearance, even though she knew he was most likely correct, Sansa couldn’t help but try and justify herself, mumbling dejectedly:

“We... we didn’t have much at the cottage... with Yoren and Arry.”

There was a sense sorrow in the reply: “I know, lad... But now you are here with me... hum, both of you are here. In fact, it would be best if I teach you both some sports: boxing? Or fencing? We need to build up those puny muscles, and then soon you will be as sturdy as me.”

“I’m not that _puny_. I am just very... _discreet_ about my… umm… _appearance_... I especially don’t like other people seeing me naked and the other way around. It is said to be shameful to see other people naked...” – _And my body will definitely never look like yours_...

“ _Ah_ – that explains your discomfort. I apologize, Alayn. Nevertheless, I am quite serious about those muscles of yours: far too small, I assure you. I don’t remember I was that small when I was four-and-ten.”

 

 

Listening to the shifting of a shirt being pulled on, Sansa held her tongue, only correcting him in her mind: - _I’m eight-and-ten not four-and-ten!... and I really don’t think any number of years will give me muscles similar to your own... in any case, **nothing** will make something additional suddenly materialize between my legs..._

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis' evening

 

 

_“I have heard a rumour of a country house party this summer, My lord...?”_

 

Realising he was the intended target to the question belatedly, Stannis cursed himself for letting his mind wonder to his previous interaction with his young ward. Blinking, mouth slightly open at the expectant Lady Sunglass, he tried to decipher what she had just asked him. Fortunately the hostess, Lady Florent, _had_ been listening and interjected:

“I hope you will not forget your own neighbours, My lord?”

Still wondering what exactly he should not forget his neighbour about, Stannis gave a dry cough:

“O-of course not...”

Alas by now whatever the topic of what they were discussing seemed interesting enough to have pulled the attention of several - mostly of the ladies – around the table, with Lady Florent’s daughter, Lady Selyse, eagerly adding whilst gazing at him hopefully:

“Will it be a mere social gathering like this one or a ball full of festive merriment?”

 _Ahhh... of course: the party Davos insisted I host.._.

Stannis tried to remember what actually Davos had informed him what was expected and was actually being planned for the summer event. Unfortunately now being the main focus of the ladies, with their interest being on a subject he had no true knowledge of – except the few events of the season Davos had forced him to – Stannis felt his heart race and palms sweat as he stammered a hopefully acceptable reply:

“Indeed my lady, the summer party will in fact last a few days: a few... friends (- _more acquaintances_ -) will join from Kings Landing... and of course there will be a ball on the closing day... I believe a small orchestra with both string and wind instruments has been planned for the occasion.”

Thankfully the answer did seem suitable enough, as all the ladies started fluttering - not too different from geese in Stannis’ opinion - giggling about the possible planned events. As the conversation soon shifted to dress patterns and other what-nots, Stannis had justification to shift his focus to his left, where talk of the capital’s politic and the conflicts across the Narrow were headlining.

 

. . .

 

When the meal finished, Stannis was relieved that the women departed to the parlour, whilst the men transferred to Sir Florent’s billiard room, to enjoy the port and cigars.

Unfortunately the hoped reprieve did not last long as Stannis had barely sat down in one of the side fauteuils, when his host, Sir Ryam Florent, turned his attention squarely on him and boisterously exclaimed:

“Dragonstone: I’ve heard that you attended quite a number of balls in Kings Landing during last year’s season - as did the Duke of Storm’s End. —is this true?”

Reminding himself that most of society did not know of the enmity that existed between the Duke of Storm’s End and the Count of Dragonstone – especially not a blubbering idiot like Florent- Stannis forced his face to remain passive at the mention of his older brother - _half-brother_...

Instead, Stannis only gave a curt nod in acknowledgment.

Unfortunately his host did not seem satisfied by this – nor were the several other gentlemen listening in – and, eyes narrowing, he insisted:

“Would this be anyway linked to another rumour: that your lordship is looking for a wife?”

 _\- Rumours seem to travel fast_...

Not wanting to show his irritation, or at least not let it show too much, Stannis held back his teeth from grinding. Why did they have to ask about his affairs? It was none of their bloody business. Stannis hated talk of the ton in the capital, and it seemed he couldn’t even escape it here, in the country. Then again, this _was_ the local society—the social whirl where all that happened to him would be gossiped about faster than the wind. The longer he stayed one of the most affluent bachelors, the longer they would consider him one of the catches of the season.

Then again, he could guess the most likely culprit to these specific bits: Robert had been trying to force some chit on Stannis, and even his younger siblings, ever since he had remembered he actually had half-siblings...

Looking straight at the older man, Stannis also wondered of the rumour of Duke of Storm’s End being found in bed with Sir Florent’s niece and the fact that Robert had been over-eager that Stannis attend Lady Florent’s dinner party upon his return to Dragonstone. Raising his brows at the elderly gentleman, Stannis played decided to play along and inquired:

“Where did you hear these _rumours_ , Sir Florent?”

Reddening, the man muttered:

“Err… just the ton’s rumours, I suppose.”

Yes, the man’s uneasiness only confirmed further what Stannis thought. Robert had tried to appease the Florent patriarch by promising things that Robert had no power to actually guaranty; more superficially, Stannis marrying one of the Florent chits – either Sir Florent’s daughter and or the most-assuredly deflowered niece.

Regrettably, the matter did not close there: Admiral Monford Velaryon sharp eyes still on Stannis persisted:

“Surely these _rumours_ are true though, Dragonstone? You need an heir to your vast wealth. It simply wouldn’t do that you do not think about your estate. There is the Duke of course, but then…”

The rest of the sentence remained unsaid.

Stannis knew what the Admiral was thinking: unlike most, _he_ knew of the true tension that existed between the children of Lord Steffon’s first and second marriages, and that Stannis would do anything to stop his maternal grandfather’s wealth, as well as his own growing fortune, go to his half-brother, who Stannis considered no more than a whoremongering drunk, who had squandered most likely more than half his inheritance by now, as well as his Lannister wife’s dowry.

And that wasn’t even taking into account the rumour that none of the Duke of Storm’s End children were in fact from his seed. If this little tib-bit proved true, that meant that neither the Storm’s End line nor the Dragonstone line could boast any male Baratheon heirs. There was a risk that after his half-brother’s and his own deaths, their titles and estates would revert back to the crown. Storm’s End and Dragonstone had been in his family for generations; there was no way Stannis wanted to destroy his ancestors’ legacy and let the Baratheon line die out; - nor would he let it be replaced by the Marquess of Casterly Rock’s get.

 

Stannis rested his head back and said:

“How unfortunate it is that my father, bless his soul, did not produce more sons.”

At the statement, he felt a shot of pain as this reminded him of Renly, who had died only two years past. He put the thought of his younger brother aside and said to the point:

“Yes. I know of my duty as Count of Dragonstone, and as it is: I _am_ intending to find myself a wife.”

There, he had said it.

He might as well have shouted it from the Tower of the Hand. Going by the keen interest written across most faces, Stannis wondered how soon the whole of Kings Landing would know and all society’s mamas would parade their _wonderful_ daughters in front of him to choose as the next Countess of Dragonstone.

 

Three seats from him, Mr Justin Massey asked, with a grin:

“And who is the lucky lady?”

Stannis glanced over at his new interviewer. He did not like the look in the man’s eyes or his constant smiles.

This time he did not stop his scowl from showing as he replied:

“I have not found one yet.”

 

 

**. . .**

 

 

The carriage ride home proved as tiresome as the dinner party he had just left.

His mind kept reverting once more to his duty of finding a bride and his need for heirs. – All his life Stannis had known that he had certain responsibilities that came with the title of Count and Dragonstone Hall. However, the marital duties were not the highest of his concerns. – His own father, the Duke of Storm’s End had married his first wife, Lady Cassana Estermont, for _duty_. Although he had never heard any true failings concerning the lady, Stannis had heard more than enough talk to know that the marriage had not been a happy one.

It was only when the first Duchess of Storm’s End had died upon the child-bed, than his Grace had been free to pursue the lady that had actually taken his fancy: his cousin the Lady Rhaella Targaryen, sister to the Count of Dragonstone.

Unlike the previous marriage, his parents’ had been proof that _love_ could exist in a marriage. However, Stannis was no to fool to believe that this would happen to him. Most of the women he had met seemed to either have no mind of their own, only following the latest fashion and whatever inane suggestions their mamas pressed on them, verging on being simpering idiots, or conniving shrews, not too different from his own half sister-in-law. With such a selection, the best he could expect for was a suitable marriage similar to the one his lord father had had with the Lady Cassana Estermont, where his wife was a lady who possessed enough good sense and gumption to be able to take care of the household and raise any children they may have. Compatibility was unlikely but hoped; love was near impossible.

 

The carriage gave a small jerk, indicating they had arrived back at the estate.

Sighing in resignation, Stannis left the small enclosure, and made his way inside his home. Being already quite late, he only gave a curt nod to Cressen before heading up the stairs to his chambers.

Upon meeting his valet at the entrance of his wardrobe, ready to assist Stannis in getting ready for bed, thoughts of marriage and a possible bride were swiftly replaced by memories of the previous events of the day and of his ward’s awkwardness when he had helped Stannis prepare. The boy had seemed eager when he had looked through the wardrobe; or at least had been amazed by the richness of Stannis’ clothes. Stannis hadn’t been able to not be relieved by the boy’s approval of his clothes. – Not that it mattered. In any case, Stannis knew that the look of wonder in the boy’s eyes was most likely due to the fact that he had never seen such luxury displayed in front of him before, and not the fact that they were Stannis’.

As Bryen helped his out of his shirt and breeches, and then handed him his night shirt, Stannis then thought of Alayn’s embarrassment after Stannis had taken his bath.

He had been annoyed by the boy’s refusal to look at him. Stannis even now tried to understand the shyness, but it still made little sense even if the boy was quite small for his age. Surely living with his uncle and brother the lad would have been around other men in no clothes. – When growing up, Renly and him would, on several occasions, bathe naked in the lake near the estate. Surely Alayn and Arry would do something similar in the warmer months; especially as they seemed so close. Then again, Arry was younger than him, so his body even less developed, and maybe the uncle did not bathe with them.

Still, it was not like Stannis had anything the boy had not seen before. Alayn had acted as if Stannis’ body had been covered in scales, and if he looked upon it for too long he would turn to stone.

 

Finally changed to his nightwear, Bryen gave him a small bow of the head and left Stannis alone.

Stannis walked back into his bedroom and stared at the bed, mind still buzzing.

He did not know how long the thoughts of the day kept on replaying his mind, before some mood convinced Stannis to check on how his two wards were now fairing.

Covering himself in his robe, he made his way back into the empty corridor.

Reaching the higher landing, he soon reached the room he knew to be assigned to Alayn. Unfortunately, when he pulled down on the handle, the door did not budge. Frowning, Stannis tried once more, with a little more force than before, and once more the door did not open. - It was _locked_. Why was it _locked_?

Frustrated to have been prevented entry in a room within his own home, Stannis went to the next room and once more tried the handle. – _Locked_ as well. Why in the blazes of the Gods were both of the boys’ rooms locked?!

Stannis stopped himself from pounding at the door at the realisation that no sound that had come from inside either of the two rooms. The boys were most likely asleep inside... Not wanting to possibly wake them, Stannis moved back to the centre of the corridor. However, he would not admit defeat: there was still the confounding knowledge that Stannis had been denied access to rooms within his own home!

 

Moving swiftly back down the stairs to the ground level, he soon found Cressen.

This time he did not hold back on his annoyance, and snapped at the man without any preamble:

“Why are the boys’ rooms locked?”

His master of the household had the decency to look contrite as he replied:

“Mrs Barre had informed me that it would seem both Master Alayn and Master Arry prefer... _privacy_ when in their chambers.”

Scowling further, Stannis demanded further explanation:

“ _Privacy_?”

“Yes, apparently upon arriving, Master Alayn insisted that neither his brother nor him needed assistance in getting ready or in taking their baths...”

Stannis blinked: “No _assistance_?” – _Is the boy’s shyness that imbedded in him_?!

“No My lord.”

His jaw tightened, as Stannis tried to make sense of what he was learning:

“No help and they even _lock_ their doors - why did neither Mrs Barre nor you inform me of this?”

“W-we did not think it important to mention, My lord.”

“Yes, yes. It was not _important_ until I am locked out of my _own_ house! Where are the keys to the two rooms?”

Most likely from Stannis’ temper, Cressen was quick in retrieving a second set of keys for the guestrooms on the higher floor.

 

Keys in hand, Stannis made his way back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, to make sure that the boys were actually in their rooms, and were not actually using their ‘ _privacy’_ to sneak into the night – something that Renly had done on several occasions in their youth.

He first reached for the elder’s door. For some reason as he placed the correct key into the lock and slowly turned it, he felt his heart beat a little faster. However, he quickly put the feeling aside as it was most likely due from his faster pace up the stairs.

The satisfying click ringing, Stannis pushed down on the handle and entered. Unfortunately as he finally silently stepped into the room, what he found inside did nothing to calm Stannis’ nerves.

Unlike his unusually loud beating heart, there was an unmistakable stillness to the room. The curtains had not been pulled, letting the night shine in, allowing Stannis’ gaze to travel the extent of the space and observe the immaculately folded bed indicated that its usual guest had not used it since at least this morning.

\- _By the whole of the Seven_! How could his household be so foolish as to believe the young lads! Did they not know the troublesome antics young men would sometimes get up to as they were growing up?

 

Now, definitely more than frustrated, Stannis moved with even more urgency to the other bedroom door to see if the second boy was as reckless as his brother. The door unlocked, opened, and Stannis walked into the bedroom, jaw clenched, expecting the undesired outcome.

However, before he could take two steps inside, he stopped.

Contrasting the other room, the curtains were drawn, and the bed was occupied, a small candle next to it as a source of light.

Finally calming down somewhat, Stannis slowly moved closer to the bed, as his gaze took in the scene: in the bed were both youths, asleep. He felt a small twitch at the corner of his mouth at the actual arrangement displayed before him: the younger boy was lying on his back, his body covering most of the bed, his mouth wide open with small sounds escaping every few minutes, whilst the older, who was on his stomach, seemed to have been somewhat shoved to the side. As he continued to observe the two sleeping form, a strange warmth ran though Stannis, reminding him of his own younger brother once more; especially when noticing one of Alayn’s arms being protectively laid over his younger brother.

Feeling foolish for making such a matter of such a small hitch, Stannis started to silently move back out the room.

– That is when something caught his eye.

His gaze had unconsciously followed the arm back to up to the boy’s body, and had noticed an unusual shadow. Frowning, this time in confusion, Stannis took a step closer instead, curious.

Stannis clenched his jaw, fists tightened, when he realised what had caught his eye. Alayn’s night shirt had shifted and bunched somewhat, revealing part of the boy’s back. What made his fury rise were the shadows on the back, or more specifically the remnants of scars from when the boy had been whipped.

Looking at the still very dark red marks, part of Stannis wanted to go back to the factory where he had found the boy and pummel the owner once more, this time without stopping until wretch was no more.

His anger then shifted to self-reproach for his early thoughtlessness, realising that the boy’s previous embarrassment had also most likely been due to the fact that his own body had been marred with violence, and the fact that he had been malnourished and treated worse than an animal most of his life.

Sorrow taking a hold of Stannis, he suddenly had the urge to run his own fingers over the angry markings, as if he would somehow make them disappear, and remove all pain the boy had ever experienced.

However, realising the foolishness of such an action, Stannis shook his head and reined in his thoughts, before silently moving away from the bed and out of the room.

 

 

**. . .**

 

 

 

_He moved against her._

_He hovered over her._

_His eyes taking in her nakedness, his hand started moving up her slender leg, caressing her smooth pale skin, as the other pulled slowly but assuredly, her head closer to his._

_Closing his eyes, he let his other senses take over: his lips meeting the crook of her neck, his nose inhaling_ _her usual scent – her **fire**. _ _His hot mouth trailed along her nape before he couldn’t help but give a small bite._

 _She always b_ _rought out his lower...baser instincts._

_Not that she did not like it. - A low moan reverberating along her throat only confirmed this. Confirmed her own nature: pure **lust**._

_He opened his eyes, his own heated gaze looking from her jaw to her red lips to her hair. His hand started stroking the_ _burnished copper_ _hair, as his lips touched hers..._

_No, not touched: **attacked**._

_He plunged his tongue into her mouth. He stroked and played with her, while his hand trailed down and clasped her_ _full_ _breast._

_His own heat matched her own - his blood stirred higher._

_He released her mouth and moved his head look straight into her haunting face. - She was **lust** and **fire** : her deep reddish-brown eyes nearly black, her lips swollen._

_\- Suddenly, her face started to turn... and fade..._

_His own passion started to decrease as confusion slowly replaced it._

_His voice hoarse, his voiced his disorientation:“_ _Melisandre_ _?”_

_But then, as if in response, a face reappeared..._

_However her normally_ _burgundy_ _eyes were now a light_ _blue_ _colour..._

_Small freckles had appeared on the bridge of her nose..._

_His breathing became hard and laborious as he pushed himself up, staring down at the new woman below him..._

_But it wasn’t the face of a woman that he was staring at!_

_\- It was the face of a boy_!

\- Jolting, Stannis felt a yelp escape him, as he pushed himself off the bed, and then soon found himself falling heavily on the floor below.

Chest heaving, heart racing, shirt humid, palms clammy, beads of sweat slowly falling down his brow, Stannis snapped his eyes opened as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

The light coming through the curtains was dim, but enough for him to know that it was early morning. He sat up and scanned the room: no one else was here with him.

 

 _It was only a dream_...

 _It wasn’t real_...

 


End file.
